The Highest Bidder
by ashedraven
Summary: Draco's for sale, and someone unexpected makes a bid for him. What's in store for Draco now? Be forewarned: SLASH-y fun ahead!
1. The Bid

****

The Highest Bidder

by Kay

Rating: PG (so far...could change later)

Categories: Humor

Pairing: Draco/? It's a surprise!

Warning: This is SLASH! Turn back if you don't like it.

Dedication: To Draco Malfoy, for being such a sexy bitch.

Disclaimer: The characters and the world in which they live do not belong to me. I'm just messin' with them.

"Has anyone seen my emerald cufflinks?" 

No reply. 

Draco Malfoy scanned the contents of the mahogany box again, carefully sifting through the expensive accessories. No emerald cufflinks in sight. With a sigh, he plucked out a set of silver cufflinks instead. They weren't his favorites, but he hardly had time to search for his first choice. He still had to fix his hair, after all. 

He decided to forego the Slytherin boys' lavatory in favor of using his dresser mirror. It would be way too crowded and frantic in there, what with the other male members of the Quidditch team preparing for the auction. 

Draco smoothed his hair back from his face, running his fingers through the silky blonde strands. He flashed his best charming smile at the mirror, then grimaced. He couldn't quite decide whether he liked the idea of this auction or not. Of course, he had been a bit put off when Dumbledore had announced at the beginning of the term that the Quidditch teams had to start holding fundraisers to supply their equipment. Due in no small part to his father's continued contributions to the Slytherin team, Draco was sure that the change in policy resulted from the whining complaints of the other houses. Was it his fault they didn't have the money to provide first-rate equipment? If they wanted to go top-of-the-line, then maybe they shouldn't have let any "less fortunate" students (cough*Weasleys*cough) play on their house teams. It wasn't Draco's problem, so he didn't care. 

Correction: He hadn't cared until he'd found out what the Quidditch captains had settled upon as a fundraiser. It was the whole reason that he was going all-out to look his absolute best. See, in about 15 minutes he and all the other Quidditch players were going to be put on display and paraded around the Great Hall so that Hogwarts students and faculty alike could made a bid on their player of choice. It had been dubbed "Yours for a Day: Quidditch-playing Witches and Wizards Bow to _Your_ Wish and Whimsy." Embarassing? Most likely. Degrading? Most definitely. Possible ego-booster? Hopefully. That's why he had to present an image of being high-class but accessible, charming but sincere, consenting but not easily-controlled. 

Well, he didn't _have_ to create that image, but he certainly thought it might be beneficial...especially since he wanted the honor and prestige of raking in the largest bid. Sure, it would help his team get the best supplies, but it would also show up Potter, and that was his main goal. 

Finally satisfied with his hair, Draco stood back to admire his reflection in the mirror, which gave an appreciative wolf whistle. He smirked a bit, knowing full-well how great he looked, and then he went to pick up his tux jacket. He shrugged it on, admiring how it accentuated the best features of his compact frame. Since he'd never really had a monumental growth spurt, Draco was about 5'10". But playing Quidditch had toned his body, resulting in sleek muscles, broader shoulders, a trim waist, and narrow hips. The tux jacket hugged his broad shoulders and slim waist, and he knew that when he took it off the white shirt would cling to his back, and the emerald-green vest would look damn sexy. Plus, the pants showed off his firm ass in the most appealing way, even if he did say so himself. He knew the tuxedo was more of a Muggle thing, but he also knew it would make him look more dashing and hot than the other guys, clad in their bulky dress robes. 

Draco straightened his tie, gave himself one more appraising look in the mirror, smiled confidently, then went out into the common room to meet up with his teammates. It was time for this show to begin. 

***

Showing their trademark fearlessness, the Gryffindors were the first to go. Of course, they put Harry as the first item for bidding, thinking that since everyone would still have their money, they'd be able to rake in the largest possible amount. And from the way things were going, Draco noted in disgust, Harry might just be able to pull it off. Right now he and the other players were in a holding room outside the Great Hall, but a mirror had been enchanted so that they could see and hear everything going on in the auction. 

Dumbledore was doing a surprisingly good job as the auctioneer, keeping up with the bids for Harry's services with great speed and clarity. Bids had started at 5 galleons, and they had continued to escalate. Young girls (and a few boys) were bidding like crazy, and Draco saw that an entire block of Hufflepuff girls had pooled their funds in hopes to get in a good bid for Harry. However, as the bids escalated to prices most students could never afford, offers slowed to almost a crawl. In fact, when the amount reached 150 galleons, bidding stopped completely. 

At that point Dumbledore looked around the room. "150 going once, going twice, going for 150..." But before he could pound his gavel, a final offer came. 

"200 galleons." Draco's eyes widened in surprise as he identified the owner of the voice. Snape! His own Head of House was shelling out 200 galleons for Potter? But why? 

Draco understood, however, when Dumbledore finalized the sale and a triumphant smile slid across Snape's face. Oh, Potter might have gotten a good bid, but he was certainly going to have to work for it, wasn't he? Draco grinned in delight as his mind conjured up all the different ways that Snape might torture Potter. Ah, the possibilities were endless, and each one was equally appealing! Leave it to Snape... 

Draco's mind was thus occupied through the next few sales, but his thoughts were interrupted by a nudge. "Your turn, Malfoy," someone said. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco straightened and rolled his shoulders back. Time to make his appearance...and it had to be a dramatic one. 

He went to stand in front of the double doors leading into the Great Hall. When he heard the applause dying down from the last player up for bid, he readied himself. There, his name was announced. Brandishing his wand and muttering a few words, the doors to the hall flew open dramatically to reveal his figure, clad in a black dress robe. With a flourish, he swirled the robe off to reveal the tuxedo beneath, hooking the robe over his finger and dangling it over his shoulder. His actions elicited a gasp from the audience, and he let the stormy, sensuous look be replaced by a cocky grin. 

*Well, that went well,* he thought to himself as people began to whisper and a couple of girls actually began to fan themselves with their bidding placards. He strode to the front of the Great Hall, working his sex appeal for all it was worth. He knew that his mysterious, bad-boy image could only add to the appeal. Upon reaching his position, he turned on his heel to face the crowd again. He winked at a front-row Ravenclaw and tossed her his robe. He was satisfied to see that she promptly fainted. 

Draco could hear the smile in Dumbledore's voice as he began the introduction. "Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin team Seeker, is a sexth, er, sixth year student at Hogwarts. Son of a very successful and wealthy wizard, Draco likes flying, dancing, and making Mudbloods cry...Hmmm, that can't be right," Dumbledore mumbled to himself, adjusting his spectacles. "Uh, his favorite color is silver, and his favorite class is Potions. The bidding for Mr. Malfoy will begin at 5 galleons." 

As bids began flying, Draco took the opportunity to work the crowd. He stalked across the catwalk, doing his level best (and it was pretty damn good) to look ferocious and dangerous, then strolled back across, looking carefree and happy (altogether more difficult). Then he struck a pose that he knew made him look smoldering and sexy (he'd practiced it in front of the mirror enough to be sure). Each time someone called out a bid, he made a point of sending a wink or a smile in the person's direction to encourage him or her to keep bidding. 

Draco really got excited when the bids reached the 175 galleon mark. It looked like he might be able to beat Potter! He'd _known_ that his questionable ties to the Death Eaters would work to his advantage at some point! He did his best to look the part of the rebel, stripping off his tux jacket and tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of the shirt. When an audible sigh swept the audience, Draco smirked in satisfaction. Just as the quickly as the speed of bids coming in had waned, they picked back up. 

Thanking his lucky stars that Pansy was sick and unable to attend the auction, Draco barely restrained from shuddering at the thought of how determined she would have been to win him. And since the girl had basically no limits on money, she likely would have been able to. But now the bids were slowing. He'd surpassed Snape's bid of 200 galleons for Potter, so Draco was basically grinning like an idiot. He didn't care who won him, just that he'd accomplished what he came to do. 

The offers slowed to a trickle when the 225 galleon mark approached. Draco continued to encourage the bidders, licking his lips licentiously, gazing up through heavily-hooded eyes, throwing a few suggestive leers. It was quite obvious that his time of servitude was going to be _much_ more enjoyable than Potter's. 

Suddenly, a bored-sounding and new voice cut through any other offers. "I'll give 250 galleons," it announced. 

Draco whirled to meet the gaze of the bidder. Only, it couldn't be... 

As Dumbledore closed the sale, Draco continued to gaze in open-mouthed horror at the buyer. 

Ron Weasley simply raised his goblet to Draco in a mock-salute. He drank deep of its contents and licked his lips, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his features. "Your ass is mine, Malfoy," he mouthed. 

Draco tried very hard not to think about what Ron Weasley might want to do with his ass. 

TBC... 


	2. The Rules

**The Highest Bidder   
by Kay**   
**Rating:** PG-13 for language   
**Categories:** Humor   
**Pairing:** Draco/Ron   
**Warning:** This is SLASH! Turn back if you don't like it.   
**Disclaimer:** The characters and the world in which they live do not belong to me. I'm just messin' with them.   
**Notes:** Sorry it took so long to get this part up. I planned to have it up much sooner, but I had finals and another story that was demanding to be written. Plus, when I started this part, I hated the way I'd written it, so I scrapped the whole thing and started again. I hope you like what came out!   
**Thanks to:** Niki for the help when I was stuck. Reviewers, without whom I would be very sad: Knowing Shadows (very smart), SwtDreams, baby chan, Caylin Douglas (Ron's revenge is coming up...heh), Chris, Gingersnap (hey, I'm making gingersnaps tonight!), adrithor, ichigatsu, Sheila, Tea (I love Draco/Ron, too. The main reason I started writing this fic was because I was in the mood for some fun between those two.), IncubusSuccubus, EnigmaDesdemona7 (I'm glad it kept you guessing!), WildfireFriendship, LuMaria (conceited!Draco and smug!Ron are definitely fun to write), Azzie, TJ, Sciuridae (Thanks...I was hoping other people would find it funny so that it wasn't just my warped sense of humor), Malfoy (LOL! I do believe that's the first threat I've ever gotten to write more soon), Thief, A-Chan (hope this meets your expectations), Lulu-Chan, PrettyWhenICry, Villain (*blushes* You're so sweet! I'm glad you like it and that it kept your attention. I have an extremely short attention span as well, so I know where you're coming from. I hope you like the close of this chapter, too), JazzPizza, and bondagechic (Hey, I finally got around to writing more! BTW, thanks for the kind review of When You, as well. I appreciate it!) 

  


  


Draco sat at the Slytherin table, sulking and pushing food around his plate listlessly. He knew that "sullen" was not his best look, but at this point, he was beyond caring. He was still floating in a state of shock, unable to believe the outcome of the auction. He'd garnered the highest bid; this was supposed to be his shining moment of triumph, the golden opportunity for him to flaunt his obvious supremacy in everybody's faces. However, the nagging little fact of who'd bought him had effectively ruined his glory. 

Oh, he'd tried everything he could think of to change the horrifying possibility of having to spend a day--an entire 24-hour period, mind you--at Ron Weasley's mercy. Mercy, ha! The big lout undoubtedly had many plans for him, and it was quite likely that none of them included anything vaguely resembling mercy. And that was why he'd searched for any possible out. He'd talked to Dumbledore, demanding to know if Ron could actually pay the outrageous price he'd offered. Unfortunately, Weasley could, and he already had. One hope gone. 

He'd tried to get someone to switch places with him in return for his own 250 galleons. No such luck. Dumbledore had said before that the rules of the auction exchange plainly stated that the Quidditch player whom the bidders had won must fulfill their day of servitude. Another idea shot down. 

Unfortunately, most of his other ideas weren't going to fly, either. The first was to offer to pay Weasley more money in return for his freedom. Not likely. Those high Gryffindor ideals and the thirst for revenge were much too strong for that, he was sure. Playing sick wouldn't work. He'd still have to fulfill his end of the bargain sometime. And he quickly discarded the idea of using a memory charm. Too messy. Plus, he'd never quite perfected them. It always seemed that he erased just a little bit too much of the memory, which could be decidedly inconvenient and incriminating if it came right down to it. 

So he was stuck with it. The shocked disbelief and mental rejection concerning the events of earlier in the day had worn off, and the awful truth was finally sinking in. He was going to have to serve his time as _Ron Weasley's slave_, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was completely, utterly helpless. Now he was experiencing a myriad of emotions: horror, disbelief, self-pity, trepidation, anxiety, humiliation, curiosity, and, perversely enough, excitement. He had no idea of what was to come, and that insecurity was doing a damn good job of undermining his much-valued and carefully cultivated self-assurance. 

Sure, he'd been his normal obstinate and demanding self at first, bound and determined to buck the rules and get out of it. After all, he was Lucius Malfoy's son! In his opinion, that meant that no one should be able to deny him anything and get away with it. Unfortunately, that's not how the rest of Hogwarts saw it. They thought it was one great joke, teasing him and laughing as he passed in the halls of the school. Anyone so much as looking his way in a manner which he found to be offensive was fixed with his patented death-glare. Those who actually had the audacity to speak to him or laugh at him received an insult so scathing that their ears would be ringing for a week. 

That's precisely the reason he hadn't understood why so many people had still been laughing at him before dinner. Didn't they know better than to incur the wrath of Draco Malfoy? It wasn't until Crabbe and Goyle finally clued him in to the sign on his back that he figured it out. Someone, thinking they were quite witty, had magicked a tag sewn to the back of his best robes. _**Property of Ron Weasley**_, it read. Draco ripped it off viciously, letting fly some choice venemous remarks that caused a few nearby first years to flee in terror. However, the jibes and laughter still continued, and Draco just didn't feel like dealing with it anymore. 

In fact, that was the very reason Draco wasn't eating his dinner. The pitying looks of his fellow Slytherins coupled with the gloating grins of all those students who believed he was finally getting what he deserved were enough to make him completely lose his appetite. He most definitely didn't need to look over at the Gryffindor table to see the smug satisfaction that was no doubt written all over _his_ face. Though Draco hadn't even seen the redhead since the auction, he had the irrepressible urge to punch him in the face. And that was a mark of the enormous degree to which Draco was thrown out of equilibrium. He was not and never had been one to resort to physical violence, but this situation was making the possibility very tempting indeed. 

Wanting to avoid any such unpleasantness over dinner, he staunchly refused to glance up at all, not even breaking eye contact with his food when Dumbledore tapped on his goblet to direct the students' attention to the head table. Draco ignored the headmaster's announcements, wondering instead just how the man could make a little chiming on his goblet loud enough to be heard over the din of the Great Hall at mealtime. He suspected that Dumbledore put some kind of amplification spell either on his goblet or the utensil he hit it with. Casting a contemplative look at his own goblet and spoon, Draco cocked his head to the side and frowned. He had half a mind to try it out, but he had no wish to gain the attention of everyone in the room. He'd already had enough of that, thankyouverymuch! 

However, Dumbledore gained Draco's full attention the moment he mentioned the auction. Draco's head snapped up, and his back straightened immediately. 

"On the subject of the Quidditch auction," Dumbledore was saying, "I am proud to announce that the four teams were able to raise more than sufficient funds to provide for this season's equipment." He paused to allow time for polite applause. "At this point in time, I'd like to request that all players and winning bidders stay after dinner for a few instructions concerning the exchange." 

The headmaster began to sit, but then he seemed to remember something. "Also, I'd like to thank all the participating bidders whose generous offers made this fundraiser such a success. Special recognition to Ron Weasley for making such a generous donation, especially to an opposing team." 

At that, the Gryffindor table burst into loud applause. Draco glowered. Even though Weasley's bid meant more money for the Slytherin team, the Gryffindors were most likely ecstatic that at least Draco's life was going to be made a living hell for a day. So that bastard was being recognized for something that would be pleasant enough for him to begin with? That hardly seemed fair. Oh, well. At least the dolt hadn't been awarded points like some kind of half-arsed hero, Draco consoled himself, feeling slightly better. 

But just then, and Draco would swear later that Dumbledore's eyes had glinted with some sort of sadistic pleasure, the headmaster did the one thing Draco most wanted to avoid: he directed everyone's attention right to the seventh year student. 

"Of course, the Slytherin team has Draco Malfoy to thank for garnering the highest bid of any player." 

_So this is how an owl in a broom's path feels, then_, Draco thought as he fought the instinct to duck under the table or to run from the room...anything to avoid all those stares! Now, by nature Draco enjoyed attention, but this wasn't exactly the kind of attention he was used to. 

Not to be outdone by the Gryffindors, the Slytherin table clapped and cheered loudly, and the sound brought Draco back to his senses. He fought down the flush that was trying to cross his cheeks, forcing a sly smirk onto his face and resolutely staring back instead. If his dignity was going to be put under such harsh strain, he was going to fight tooth and nail to keep at least a few shreds intact. With that end in mind, Draco restrained himself from glaring and snapping at Goyle when a meaty hand slapped him on the back. He gritted his teeth and plastered on an arrogant smile until attention returned to the head table, then he allowed himself a relieved sigh. Draco mentally thanked his father for all those childhood etiquette lessons. If nothing else, he had definitely benefitted from the coaching on how to look the exact opposite of what he felt. 

Somehow he made it through the rest of dinner, though he didn't taste a bite of the food he shoved down his throat. When the Great Hall began to empty out, he edged closer to the head table, careful to stay in the midst of the other Slytherin players. Glancing around and trying not to look as nervous as he felt, Draco noticed that he wasn't the only one feeling out of sorts. 

Most others wouldn't be able to tell from looking, but Draco could plainly tell from the way he kept biting his lower lip and glancing in the direction of the door that Professor Snape was not at all comfortable with the situation. As he was the only adult involved in the exchange, he stood out like Weasley-red hair in a sea of blonde heads. 

Draco snickered quietly at the comparison, then stopped abruptly when he caught sight of said red hair. Quickly, he stepped behind Crabbe so that the view was blocked. He tried to convince himself that it was because looking at Weasley after dinner was never a good idea for his digestive system, but he failed miserably. To be honest with himself, Draco knew his avoidance was due to unease about what the Weasel had planned for him. He didn't care to have any more lurid winks and suggestively-mouthed phrases directed at him any time soon. 

He peeked around Crabbe's hulking shoulder, but the crowd had shifted until he could only see Potter. At least _he_ looked about as scared out of his wits as Draco felt. 

_As well he should!_ Draco thought smugly. _It's about time he was brought down a peg or two..._

But his self-righteous inner voice shut up just as soon as he realized that people were probably thinking the exact same thing about him. 

With that thought in mind, it was no small wonder that Draco was scowling darkly when, once all the players and bidders were gathered and the rest of the room had cleared, Dumbledore cleared his throat and began to speak. 

"Now that you're all here, I'd like to remind you that the day of servitude begins tomorrow morning, promptly one hour after breakfast. Then the bidders, referred to hereafter as the Masters, have full reign to make demands of the players they bid upon. As it is a Hogsmeade weekend, any second year players will be allowed to accompany their Masters if it is so wished." 

The only three second year players perked up, as did a few of the youngest bidders. "However," Dumbledore continued, "any underage Masters will not be allowed to go, even if their charges are old enough." 

Draco had already half-tuned him out, so he didn't notice a few disappointed looks. He was too busy fuming, barely restraining a frustrated groan. Of course it had to be a Hogsmeade weekend! Weasley was probably plotting to do everything in his power to ensure that Draco had the worst experience of his life. Horrific visions of the possible torture popped into his mind: Weasley, forcing him to carry all his purchases like some low-class valet (Though a petulant voice in his head cackled, asking if it would be such a huge chore to carry whatever purchases Weasley might be able to afford. But then again, he wasn't going to be bowing to the prat's every wish for no reason. It wasn't like he'd been bought with leprechaun gold.); Weasley, forcing him to get more Butterbeer for him and the Mudblood; Weasley, demanding that Draco walk two steps behind him or some such garbage. 

Draco shuddered at the thought that the Weasel was most likely going to take every possible opportunity to humiliate him. Of course, he didn't know that things would have been any better if they'd had to stay at Hogwarts, but the idea of being seen in public actually _serving_ an inferior made Draco seethe, eyes narrowing and fists clenching tightly. 

"Now, as for what Masters can and cannot demand of their charges, I gave this subject some serious thought. I can't simply say 'anything within reason' because those boundaries are quite subjective. Some of your definitions of those orders within reason would be egregiously narrow." Draco tried to look innocent when Dumbledore's gaze settled on him. "Others," he continued, looking away, "might have a very wide range of demands they think would be well within reason, including some things I'd like to think none of you would actually order anyone to do." 

Dumbledore's voice was sharp, and his hawklike eyes pierced the group standing in front of him. Draco actually paled when he thought about possible "orders" that some of the Masters, notably his own, might think up. Thank goodness Dumbledore was placing limits on this! 

"So," Dumbledore continued, "I've settled upon a simple rule to judge your demands against. If it would be harmful to either party involved or would cause considerable damage to a player's psyche or reputation, it's off-limits. If there is any kind of disagreement about how a demand fits into this guideline, all complaints are to be brought to me. And I do not intend to deal with any petty squabbles," he warned pointedly. Then, with a quick smile and sparkling eyes, he was back to his normal, good-natured self. "I'm done, so if the Masters would like a few words with their charges, this is a good time to lay out plans for tomorrow," he concluded. 

Draco immediately turned to leave the hall, desperate to escape without seeing Weasley. He didn't turn when he heard his name being called, but when a hand clamped down on his arm, he jerked out of the grip and whirled to face his assailant, breathing hard. 

Predictably, Weasley was grinning, white teeth glinting and making Draco think of some lithe predator...not a very well-camouflaged predator, but a predator all the same. 

"What?" Draco snapped irritably. 

"Oh, now is that any way to talk to me?" Weasley asked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed casually. 

"What the hell do you want, Weasel?" Draco hissed, ignoring Weasley's comment. 

"Just to talk to you about tomorrow, that's all," the redhead replied, completely unruffled. "Oh, and you can't call me that," he stated matter-of-factly. 

Draco snorted. "Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? Yell, 'Hey, you!' every time I need to get your attention?" 

Ron rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "Oh, I don't know. I think _Master_ has a nice ring to it, don't you?" he asked, grinning crookedly, self-satisfaction written all over his face. 

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That'll be the day that I have a wet dream about Snape!" he snapped, spinning on his heel to stalk out of the room. He shook his head at the stupidity of his comeback, knowing that it was undoubtedly the dumbest one he'd ever made during all his years of verbal sparring. However, he laid all the blame at Wealey's feet, attributing his own maimed thought process to the git's annoying self-assuredness and outright antagonism. 

He didn't see it when Ron's eyebrows raised in shocked surprise. He also didn't see the look morph into one of wicked consideration. He did hear it, however, when Weasley called out, "Then I hope you have sweet dreams, Drakey-poo!" after his retreating figure. 

"Fuck off, Weasel," he muttered, not at all sure he'd even be able to sleep that night. 

*** 

Draco woke a few hours later, heart beating erratically, breath coming hard between his parted lips...and sheets sticking to his lower body. 

"Shit," he groaned, his own words coming back to haunt him. 

_"That'll be the day that I have a wet dream about Snape!"_

Oh, it was not going to be a good day. 

**TBC...**


	3. The Fun Begins

**The Highest Bidder   
by Kay   
Rating:** Still PG-13   
**Warnings:** Slash, language, suggestiveness, and other fun stuff   
**Disclaimer:** I think we all know who owns all the Harry Potter copyrights, and it definitely isn't some poor college girl who likes to write slash.   
**Notes:** I know, I suck for taking so long to get this part up. Because I don't like to take the blame for being uncreative and generally not feeling like writing, I'm going to say it's because ff.net was down (which is true) and the fact that our computer at home is completely screwed up and I never get a chance to get on it (which is also true). I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and I'll have the next part ready much sooner. I promise...Either that or I'll come up with some insane story about how my house was sucked underground into hell! (Passions, anyone?)   
**Thanks to:** Niki, as always, for putting up with my shit and reading what I've written no matter what she may be doing at the time. Reviewers like **heehee**, who actually emailed me to kick my ass for not writing sooner (the lavish praise didn't hurt, either). Also to Teigra, Celeste Rose, Kitori, S, Nagi, Lighter Shadows, Rogndaldr, Siren, ruz, LuMaria (so glad you liked the last chapter...and about the Snape visual. *snickers*), Hana-chan, WildfireFriendship, Lady FoxFire, and last but not least MamaLaz (I'm so glad you like the story thus far. Sorry for the super-long delay, but it's really feedback like yours that makes me happy enough to keep writing the crude and funny stuff. And yeah, there definitely aren't enough Ron/Draco shippers around!) 

_On to Part Three!_

  


While Ron whistled happily away in Gryffindor Tower, Draco was still in bed, curled in a ball underneath a clean set of sheets. He didn't want to get up. His stomach was knotted in dread at the prospects of the day ahead. Breakfast was the last thing he was in the mood for, especially since he only had an hour after it was over before his day of doom would officially begin. He'd rather die of starvation, refusing to budge from his bed, than bow down to Weasley and call him "Master." 

Okay, so Draco realized that he was being a bit melodramatic, but he figured that he had a bloody good reason to be. He was not optimistic about what the day might bring. In fact, he was kind of hoping beyond all hope that the world might conveniently come to an end before he had to drag himself out of bed. He decided to wait ten more minutes for a miracle, but since the universe was clearly conspiring against him and no such miracle was forthcoming, he found himself in the shower a quarter of an hour later. 

By the time he reached the Great Hall for breakfast, though, he'd managed to gain a tenuous grip on his composure. He'd be fine. All he had to do was make it through one day. One. He could handle that just fine. He'd halfway convinced himself to believe it when he sat down in his regular seat. He was almost completely assured by the time he was a third of the way into his milk and eggs. When he was nearly finished eating, he was feeling almost invincible with one thought (that had become a mantra, practically) running through his head: "That which does not kill me can always get its come-uppance when I decide it's time." 

It was with that confidence and a smile on his face that his gaze sought out Ron's figure at the Gryffindor table. His eyes settled on the readhead, who was oblivious to Draco's attention as he picked up a sausage link from his plate. Draco watched, enraptured, as Ron opened his mouth around the end of the sausage and started sucking, lips glistening and cheeks hollowing slightly. 

Draco felt his own mouth go dry, and his jaw dropped when Ron's white teeth bit into the meat and his tongue slid out to lick his lips. Then Draco was transfixed by the sight of five fingers disappearing within Ron's mouth as he licked the grease off of them one by one. He wasn't even aware of his own stupefication until the glint of Ron's feral smile brought him out of his fanta--um, observations. His eyes shot up to meet Ron's, and when the Gryffindor quirked an eyebrow and signaled for Draco to close his mouth, Draco's teeth snapped together with an audible click, and his eyes widened almost comically. 

Oh, fuck. So much for all his careful composure and invincibility. 

*** 

Draco fled the Great Hall the moment breakfast ended, and he spent the subsequent hour formulating a plan and reinforcing his "courage." All right, so he'd actually gotten a little sloshed, but he rationalized that it was okay because it helped clear his mind. And when his mind was clearer, he realized that he was tired of running scared. He'd been letting Weasley have too much leverage, allowing the Gryffindor to make all the first moves. Well, he'd had enough. Weasley was about to find out the kind of stuff a real Malfoy was made of! 

Thus, when Draco swept into the Great Hall to meet Ron, running only five minutes late and walking in a nearly straight line, he was not the same embarassed and unsure Draco Malfoy who Ron had made blush crimson at breakfast. He was prepared for anything, though he was also a bit disappointed that his grand entrance had gone virtually unnoticed. 

Draco stumbled to a halt right behind Ron, wondering why the stones were rough and uneven enough that he, the graceful Draco Malfoy, had tripped so ungainfully. After a few moments of waiting for Ron to notice him and turn around, the Slytherin cleared his throat impatiently. Ron actually had the audacity to hold up one finger to signal Draco to wait until he'd finished his conversation, and then he finally wrapped up things and turned his attention to the affronted blonde. 

Upon turning, Ron's gaze immediately roved down the length of Draco's body, taking in royal blue robes and black shoes. His gaze wandered back up to Draco's impeccably-styled hair and rather flushed cheeks. After the uncomfortable inspection, Draco had the distinct impression that Weasley was undressing him with his eyes. How creepy. 

"Hey, Malfoy. Lookin' good. Planning to go somewhere?" Ron finally spoke. 

At that point, Draco discovered just how difficult it was to look down his aristocratic nose at someone five inches taller than he was, so he settled for a sneer. "Hogsmeade ring a bell, Weasel?" 

Ron clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. "Now what did I tell you about calling me that?" When Draco stubbornly refused to answer, Ron shot him a reproachful look. "If you'd stuck around for even thirty seconds last night, you'd know that you got all dressed up for nothing. You're not going to need those fancy clothes for what I have planned." 

Draco couldn't even formulate a reply to that, so he just stared blankly at Ron. "Huh?" he blurted unthinkingly. His brain tended to slow down a bit when he had been drinking. 

"Well, before you ran off yelling something about Snape and wet dreams, I planned to tell you that we're not going to Hogsmeade today. You and I are going to stay right here," Ron said, voice lowering suggestively. He leaned in close to whisper in the stunned blonde's ear. "We're staying on the school grounds where we'll have plenty of privacy." 

Draco's first instinct was to run screaming from the room. But no, he'd promised himself not to let Ron's behavior faze him, so it was time to go on the offensive. Instead of pulling back like his sense of proprienty and gag reflex dictated, Draco stood his ground. 

"You know what I can't figure out?" he murmured. "I want to know where you possibly got the money to pay for me, what with your entire family being financially challenged and all that. I can't imagine anyone paying more than 100 galleons for her, but since I haven't seen her around lately, did you happen to sell that little sister of yours?" Draco waited for Ron to explode, innately pleased with his wit as well as his virtually un-slurred delivery. 

Instead, Ron cocked an eyebrow at Draco's insult, the corners of his mouth lifting in a barely-suppressed smile. "My, my, Malfoy! What a big mouth you have. Big hands and feet, too," Ron said, eyes roving over Draco's body and settling on a certain area just below the waist. "I can't even begin to imagine the size of your...trust fund," he finished after a perfectly timed pause, his amused eyes meeting Draco's shocked ones. 

Draco was just drunk enough to find Ron's suggestive comment amusing. He tittered slightly, and when Ron started looking the startled role for once, Draco only laughed harder. His mirth was short-lived, however, since he discovered that laughing with such gusto was wreaking havoc on his stomach. It churned uneasily, and Draco quickly straightened up, looking a bit green. 

Ron recovered from his momentary surprise, taking in the blonde's sickly disposition. "What's wrong with you, Malfoy? Are you...drunk?" 

"Nope. I'm perfectly sober," Draco lied with a straight face and only the slightest hint of a slur. 

Ron arched an eyebrow skeptically. "Uh-huh." Then his look turned calculating. "Drinking doesn't happen to make you lose your inhibitions, does it?" 

His question went unanswered, though, because Draco wasn't paying him any mind. His gaze was focused over Ron's left shoulder, watching longingly as a group of students departed for Hogsmeade. He could hear one of the Masters demanding that his servant (his girlfriend, conveniently) "relax and have fun." Now why couldn't he have been bought like someone like that? Instead, he had Weasley to put up with all day. Oh, joy. 

"It's karma, coming back to kick you in the arse." 

Draco jumped at Ron's voice, which was raised to catch Draco's wandering attention. "What?" 

"The little self-pitying look that says you're wondering why you got stuck with me. You're getting payback for the way you've treated my friends and me from day one. Karma," Ron concluded. 

Draco scowled, then winced as his stomach rolled uncomfortably. Ron gave him another funny look and seemed on the verge of commenting before a voice interrupted him. 

"Ron, I need to talk to you for a minute," Harry said, seemingly in a hurry. 

"Okay," Ron replied. He turned to Draco. "First order of the day, slave. Go over and wait by that wall," he said, gesturing vaguely. 

Draco sniffed haughtily and shot Harry a condescending glance before walking to the designated spot. He might have put up an argument, but he was pretty sure that if he fought less now Weasley might give him some slack later. Besides, he could read lips and body language pretty well. 

Unfortunately, Harry and Ron had their backs turned to him, so that ruled out reading lips. 

_No fair,_ Draco thought, pouting. Still, he kept a close watch, and Harry's body language made it plain that he was incredibly anxious about something. That something was most likely his day of servitude with one very surly Potions Master. Harry kept shifting his stance from foot to foot and twisting his hands nervously when he wasn't running them through his messy hair. 

It was actually kind of unsettling to see Precious Potty so unnerved; it made Draco doubly uncomfortable about what Ron might have planned for him. Of course, he'd never admit that to anyone. And there was no way he was going to feel any sympathy whatsoever for Potter, of all people. 

A few minutes later, Ron came over to retrieve Draco as Harry left the Great Hall at a run. Strangely enough, Ron had a small grin on his face. 

"Why, Weasley! I'm shocked at you. Shouldn't you be concerned at your poor best friend's plight? The way he flew out of here, Snape must already be running him ragged. If that keeps up, he might not even be able to walk right by the end of today." 

This, at least, Draco could do. Making fun of Potter was kind of his forte, after all. But when Ron burst out laughing, Draco was at a loss again. 

"Oh, I have a feeling Harry will give as good as he gets," Ron chuckled. "He'll be...on top of things, so to speak." 

Draco stared in disbelief as Ron dissolved into a fit of raucous laughter, his mind going to mad work to decipher what Ron meant. But the wicked glint of Ron's eyes, the verbal innuendo, Harry's _excitement_ (not anxiety as he'd previously thought). It was all starting to come together. 

"No bloody way," Draco breathed. 

"What, you're surprised, Malfoy?" Ron asked, still amused. "Awww...all your illusions of Harry having to suffer through a terrible day of taking Snape's evil orders are shattered. Not that I'm saying no orders will be involved, maybe a bit of BDSM," Ron added gleefully, enjoying the sickened look on Draco's face until... 

Draco made a strangled sound and bent forward, throwing up right on Ron's shoes. 

Ron stared down in horror. "What the _hell_?" 

"I believe it's called _karma_," Draco croaked. 

  


**TBC...**


End file.
